


A Melancholy of Tea Parties

by treefrogie84



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Tea Parties, from a certain point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: Three tea parties, two demons, one angel.





	A Melancholy of Tea Parties

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to WWM for helping me title this thing when all I had was “a [collective noun] of tea parties” and to Thayer for reading over it and telling me I was filling the prompt.

There aren’t any other kids here this week either. So she’ll be one selected for their “games” again, sacrificed for the good of the organization. Bela glances at the big house across the garden before turning to her books. She can’t run, they learned that the second week, the walls topped with broken glass and markings that somehow hold them immobile. Kristen had _screamed_ when she topped the wall, Toby unable to pull her back down, trapped until the security officers did… something.

Kristen and Toby stopped showing up after that, their fathers in disgrace. And then week after week, so did everyone else. Her parents never talked about it, even behind closed doors. Just how vital it is that Bela score well, that she surpass the others.

She has no idea what she’s supposed to score well _on_ , but if she gets good marks then maybe--

“Waiting on the old men?” A young girl asks, dropping her satchel with a thud on the table across from Bela.

“Just waiting,” Bela shoots back, haughtily.

“The old men, then.” She nods, pulling out a thermos. “Tea?”

Hesitantly, Bela accepts-- this is almost certainly another test, but it’s been _hours--_ and they move to the broken down swing set.

“I can take care of them for you,” the girl says. “And it won’t even cost you anything, for ten whole years.” Her eyes turn blood red for a brief moment.

Bela’s hands tighten on the chains of the swing. Free of her mother’s expectations and blind eye, her father’s touch… “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

He remembers where the gravesite is at least. He wasn’t sure he would.

“Sammy said something, once. How you were more of tea sort of gal than coffee.” Dean frowns, staring down at the marker, at the photo already starting to fade in the California sun. “One of the few times he was willing to--” Cutting himself off, he shakes his head.

Crouching, Dean carefully places the disposable cup of tea on Jess’s headstone before settling to the side, his own cup of overpriced coffee balanced precariously on his knee.

“I tried, Jess. I tried to keep him the same kid you loved. I just… I’m sorry.”

He waits, half hoping that she’ll appear and do… something. Toss him against a tree maybe. He deserves it.

“If it matters, we got him. The bastard who killed you. Shot him right in the heart a few months back. There was a lot going on though. If you missed it, that’s probably ok.

“My-- our-- birthday is next week. Twenty-nine and twenty-four and neither of us is going to see thirty.” He barks out a laugh, leaning his head back against the headstone. “I’d do it again though. Sammy’s alive, and that’s what matters right?”

A crow caws in the distance, raucous and demanding and pissed off. “That’s my cue, I guess. To get out of your hair.” Climbing to his feet, he sighs. “I’m sorry, Jess. I never should have gotten him from Stanford. Should have left him alone.”

Spinning on his heel, Dean stalks off.

Unnoticed, the paper cup of tea tips over, draining into the winter grass and faded silk flowers at the base of the grave.

 

* * *

 

He’s not always asleep is the thing. He’s always hallucinating, can’t always tell her apart from her lord, but sometimes… sometimes she can almost see what Winchester sees in him.

She sets down two paper cups of tepid tea on the desk, it’s weak and nearly tasteless, but she has a reputation to maintain.

“Good evening, Emmanuel,” she greets him, undoing the straps that hold him to the bed when he’s having a fit. “How are you this evening?” They did them correctly this time, which might _almost_ be proof that any bag of pus can learn.

“Meg,” Castiel growls back, looking almost lucid. “What-- Where am I?” Sitting up, he rubs his wrists and looks around.

She passes him one of the cups of tea. “What, no thorny beauty this time? I’m hurt, Clarence.”

“No, you are definitely that--” He breaks off, eyes flicking to the corners of the room before he shudders. “You are certainly thorny.”

“And horny, but who’s counting.” She sips her tea, watching him carefully. “Feeling any angelic impulses that need to be shut down?”

He shakes his head, focused more on some hallucination behind her than on her. “How do you stand it? This can’t be--”

“Stand what?”

“I understand that the rack burns out any sensitivity to gore, but… how do you process everything that’s happening?”

Oh, he’s back in Hell. She thought maybe he’d go somewhere interesting this evening. “It’s not real. Drink your tea.”

Obediently, he takes a drink before flinching away from something only he can see. Steaming now, the tea spills over his hand and arm, raising red welts behind it. The cup drops, soaking his pants and sheets, heat rising from them both in waves.

“Shit,” she says conversationally, setting her own tea down and moving over to him. He’s gone catatonic again, staring fearfully at something only he can see, flinching occasionally. Rolling her eyes, she pushes him so he’s lying down again, redoing the restraints. “So glad I’m spending my break in here, with you,” she snaps, roughly yanking his scrub pants off along with the sheets.

She mutters for a few minutes, quiet imprecations and curses-- some of which haven’t been heard on Earth in centuries-- while cleaning up the mess. She’s not a nurse, has hated every minute of this, and…

_Détante_.

Winchester can go fuck his mutually assured destruction or whatever else in the fuck he wants. She’s done.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Yes, I'm aware that when she made her deal, Bela's name was Abby. But then no one would know who I was talking about.   
> Please place the blame for all feels at [Thayer's feet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831649), it was his prompt this month. I highly recommend throwing comments and kudos at him.


End file.
